Jody Wisternoff’s gig for TATW 450 starts violently, with some screaming violins or electronic gadgets that sound like them. The four repetitive beats invoke the rain or foreplaying the wildest sex ever. And then the voice. Don’t know if it’s him singing. I might as well write on his Facebook wall and ask him. I’ve done it before. He’s generous enough to reply to his fans.
I know this part by heart, my gut knows it, the tiny hairs on my spine rise and my muscles contract, I feel like a big cat ready to jump for a gazelle. Playing Jody loud in the car, as I’m driving to a CF morning class.
I love the morning classes. The sun rises while I’m driving to Springs, the roads are almost empty, and one can literally breathe in the possibilities through the open window.
I park at the same time as he does.
He waits for me to sign in and we enter the gym together.
We end up side by side, squat holding against the wall. I see him from the corner of my eye and I can’t concentrate anymore, my knees are weak, but thank God I can say it’s because of the squat hold. Oh, I’m so aware of my stupid, immature infatuation that I could easily discard, like a useless ATM receipt. But why? It feels so good, so painfully alive…
I can’t hold for too long, maybe seven – eight seconds, then I need to break, count to five then re-assume the position…if only!
Right beside me, he holds it. And holds it. Then, he starts screaming. The sound of a wounded bear, slowly bleeding to death. Or a passionate lover having the orgasm of his life. Whichever it is, it’s so powerful, I almost suffocate. I choke and start coughing, trying to catch my breath.
It’s not funny anymore, and, fortunately, we’re going out for a run, where I can clear my head and try to forget that sound, still ringing in my ears, the visceral sensation still contorting in my stomach.
Back in the gym, we choose different stations. Maybe it’s for the best not to have him in front of me.
I remember Luca’s words. ‘Tell him.’ What to tell him? There’s no place for words here. This is a bubble, all this crazy passion; a single word would be nothing but a needle to burst it. Better leave it to float on the wind of my imagination, it’s harmless, but its colours have a beauty all their own.
The class is over.
We stretch, still side by side on the black and yellow mats, we talk about my last run, and I go to the bathroom to change my wet shirt and take off the killer Nike bra. Release feels great, like casting aside a suit of armour. My breasts are soft, my nipples hard. What a delicious contradiction. Nice!
He’s outside, by his car, and I’m happy I have my chance to say good bye. We hug and he’s all wet. I feel the urge to ask him how my nipples feel on his abs.
I giggle instead.
I’m ready to go to my car, but he’s still holding me and doesn’t let go.
I’m afraid to look up. I’d be pretty close to his mouth and…
I hold my breath for a second, because I anticipate the kiss. He didn’t shave and his one day beard is rough against my face. Friction was never so sweet and full of promise. His tongue tastes like melon.
I can continue in an E.L. James’s style, and I know lots of my readers would prefer it to what I’m going to actually reveal about that kiss.
Well… there was no kiss.
I just closed my eyes for a moment in the bathroom, mesmerized by the view of my nipples, and imagined how they’d feel against his abs, through his wet shirt…
I’d better hurry, I need to get home, shower and go to work. I guess an imaginary kiss is almost as good as a real one… Oh, whom am I kidding?! Sometimes, I’m so ridiculously, innocently, stupidly, delightfully…